All for the Firewhiskey
by Deanie McQueen
Summary: Professor Dumbledore wants a word with John Winchester in the year 1993. At his bidding, Dobby takes Sam and Dean both back in time and to Hogwarts. Magic happens. S1 Supernatural. Book 3 HP.
1. The Corpse of Buddy Sloan is Never Found

**A/N:** I have a niece, young Susanna McQueen, and she quite enjoys the magical tales of Harry Potter. I dedicate this story to her.

**All for the Firewhiskey**  
by  
Deanie McQueen

_Chapter One - The Corpse of Buddy Sloan is Never Found_

* * *

"Oh."

That's all Dean could say. All Dean could say was 'oh.' Because here he was, standing next to his gigantic little brother as always, shoulder to shoulder, and they were staring down at the most odd-looking creature they had ever seen in their entire lives.

And they'd seen some pretty odd-looking creatures in their day.

But this one took the cake.

"Please do not be alarmed, Misters Muggles, sirs," the tiny, hideous thing said with its crazy ears all over the place and its single sock on one foot, wee rags wrapped strategically around areas that were most likely as indecent on this thing as they were on Dean.

Not that Dean had indecent areas. All of Dean's areas were magnificent, thank you very much.

"You is very tall and handsome," the oddity told them, and Dean smiled reflexively and stopped fingering his gun. This little dude knew what he was talking about. "For Muggles, Dobby means."

"What the hell are Muggles?" Sam asked, dancing a hand through his long hair. "Is that some kind of slur?"

"No, sir, not at all! Dobby is most coherent at the moment! Dobby isn't having a drop of firewhiskey in twenty years."

"Firewhiskey?" said Dean. "That sounds amazing." He elbowed Sam in the side. "Sammy? Doesn't that sound amazing?"

Sam sighed in exasperation. "Dean, what are we even..." But then he gave up, as he often did when his big brother looked excited about stupendous things, and turned back to their problem at hand. "Um...Dobby, is it?" It nodded eagerly, looking pleased that Sam had spoken to it so directly and without that all too familiar air of accusation in his voice. "Dobby, what are you exactly?"

It looked up at them with huge glassy eyes that might have been a little scared, but he trucked on bravely, this thing, and said, "Why, sir, Dobby is a house-elf!"

Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked back. This look was a significant one, and together they asked, "A house-elf?"

Dobby, the house-elf, nodded quite eagerly. "Yes, sirs. Dobby is being a house-elf all his life." And Dobby's face suddenly fell, and his huge watery eyes diverted to the ground as he scuffed a barefoot into the grass. "It is rather a morose thing to be, Dobby is afraid."

"Sorry to hear that," Dean said. "So about this firewhiskey-"

"_Dean_," Sam sighed. And he rolled his eyes again. The bitchy little brat. "Dobby...you seem pretty harmless, so we're not going to kill you."

The elf's head snapped up in surprise, the fear in his eyes palpable. "You was going to kill Dobby, sirs?"

Sam looked down at the gun in his hand, which had been out in a very conspicuous way ever since Dobby popped up in this field twenty minutes ago, while Sam and Dean had been fervently searching for the unmarked grave of Buddy Sloan.

"Not anymore," Sam said smoothly, and slipped his gun back into his jacket. "So, Dobby...what are you doing in the middle of Burket, Indiana? In this field? With us?"

"Professor Dumbledore is sending Dobby, sir! To retrieve Mister Sam Winchester and Mister Dean Winchester and bring them back to Hogwarts!"

"You..." Dean was speechless for a moment. The fact that Dobby knew their names flitted briefly through his mind. But only briefly. "_Hogwarts_? What is-"

"Yes, Mister Dean, sir! Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You should be having a fine time, Dobby is sure of it!"

"Wha...uh, Dobby, we...dude, we can't just take off to some random place. Even if we wanted to...I mean, it's got a really funny name and all, but..." Dean trailed off, and he looked at Sam with eyes that said he was really actually quite curious about this hilariously-named school for..."Wizards, you say?"

Dobby nodded. "And witches!"

"Wizards and witches, Sam."

"Witches are evil, Dean."

"Dobby's not evil. And he's excited about them. Dobby, are witches evil?"

"Oh, no, sir! Witches is being very kind people at Hogwarts. There is bad witches, yes, just like there is bad Muggles."

"And they have firewhiskey?"

Dobby nodded seriously. "At the Three Broomsticks, there is being firewhiskey. Not at Hogwarts, Dobby is afraid. Only of age witches and wizards...but Misters Sam and Dean are of age."

"We most certainly are," Dean agreed, much to his brother's increasing distress.

Sam groaned. "Dean, this is ridiculous. Dobby, what's that thing around your neck?"

Not for the first time, Dean took note of the golden pendant around Dobby's neck. It was large and had a little hourglass in the middle of it, and it looked, Dean had to admit, distinctly magical.

"This?" Dobby fingered the necklace lovingly. "This is a time-turner, Mister Sam. Professor Dumbledore is trusting Dobby with it to bring Misters Sam and Dean back to Hogwarts with him. To the year 1993."

Dean blinked dumbly at Dobby. "You want to take us back in time?"

Dobby nodded. "And to Hogwarts, sir!"

"Well, that's...that's really awesome of you and everything, Dobby, but we're kind of busy. We're looking for our dad and-"

"So is Professor Dumbledore, Mister Dean, sir!"

Sam and Dean looked at the elf, aghast. Together, they asked, "What?"

"Professor Dumbledore is being on the search for Mister Sam's and Mister Dean's father in the year 1993. They must come now! Dobby is being paid for his services! Dobby is a free elf and he is being on the clock!"

Sam and Dean were rather speechless. They just kind of stood there, gawking at Dobby, their mouths opening and closing, small noises of never-formed words leaving the backs of their throats as they tried to soak this all in.

Unfortunately, in these long, lingering moments of shock, Sam and Dean weren't quite as reactive as they were usually prone to being. Dobby grabbed them both by the sleeves of their jackets and the three of them - Sam, Dean, and the free elf named Dobby - disappeared from the field with a _pop_.

* * *

TBC.


	2. Different Magic is Different

**All for the Firewhiskey**  
by  
Deanie McQueen

_Chapter Two - Different Magic is Different_

* * *

Everything went black. Dean couldn't breathe. He felt like his body was collapsing in on itself. He was also flying backwards very, very fast and he reached out, twisting and turning in Dobby's surprisingly firm grip until he got a hold of his little brother's arm, which he clutched like a life-line. An instant later, he felt Sam's hand come down on his own arm, squeezing it for dear life, and then the world wasn't black anymore. It was a blur of colors and shapes and Dean felt nauseous, nauseous and drowning, and he just wanted it to be over. But it seemed like it was lasting forever...

Finally, after what seemed to be a decade without breath, it stopped. Sam and Dean both came crashing down onto a hard floor, choking and gasping and coming to, sucking in deep breaths, gulping the air like it was water and they were two sorry men dying of thirst.

"For...fuck's...sake..." Dean panted, and he got on his knees and crawled closer to Sam, willing his eyes to adjust to the still room with its soft lights and circular shape. That's all he gathered at first, until the rest of it came into view, the desk and the books, the shiny, silver trinkets emitting small puffs of smoke and the humungous paintings...portraits. The subjects of which were moving about and glaring down at Sam and Dean with evident distaste.

One of them, old and rather snide-looking, heaved a great sigh and shook his head. "Really, Dumbledore? You're allowing _Muggles_ in your office now? Do you really think that _wise_?"

"That's enough, Phineas," a mild voice replied, sounding rather amused. " I am fairly certain the young Misters Winchester here will adapt rather quickly. Magic is not a foreign concept to them, after all."

Dean looked to Sam, who didn't look back. His eyes were wide and he was taking in the sheer splendor of their surroundings. Dean almost snorted his own amusement, thinking that it was typical of his geek brother to be taken in by a place with so many books.

Dean searched for the source of the voice that wasn't the portrait, and finally his eyes rested on a man off to the side of the office, an old man with a long flowing white beard and hair to match, half-moon spectacles shielding bright blue eyes. He was wearing...robes. Satin robes in shades of deep purple and Dean blinked at them, dumbfounded.

"Wha..." _What do you want with us? Why are we here?_ These were the questions that burned on Dean's tongue, but what came out was, "Where's Dobby?"

Dean needed to know where Dobby was, because he was going to kill the little son of a bitch. No amount of flattery or promises of alcohol would save him, not after that trip, not after he brought them...here. Wherever this was.

The old man smiled kindly. "I believe Dobby has gone down to the kitchen to acquire some sandwiches and pumpkin juice for you and your brother.. He'll be back up shortly."

Dean's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. Huh. Despite just feeling insanely sick, too. Who would have thought? Maybe Dobby could live after all...if the sandwiches were good.

"Yeah? And who are you?" Dean demanded, and finally, he climbed to his feet. He felt dizzy and faint and he almost tumbled to the floor again. He would have, actually, if a chair hadn't moved on it's own accord to catch him before he could collapse. "What the..." He narrowed his eyes at the man. "_What_ are you?"

The blue eyes seemed to twinkle even more. "I," the old man said, rather matter-of-factly, "am a wizard. My name is Albus Dumbledore and I am the headmaster of this school."

"School..." Dean trailed off as Dobby's words came flooding back to him. Schools with funny names and...and wizards. And witches. "Hogwarts," he said. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And firewhiskey."

Dumbledore chuckled. "That is correct, my boy. Perhaps without that last part, but nevertheless...Sam? Would you like some help up?"

Sam was still sitting on the floor, but at the sound of his name, snapped to attention. He clambered to his big feet, swayed, and after a moment of Dumbledore waiting to see if he would catch his balance, was greeted by a self-moving chair just as Dean was. "What kind of bird is that?" he asked, his head twisting in the direction of the door, where a large bird with red and gold plumage was perched nearby.

"Hmm? Oh, that is a phoenix." Dumbledore had this way of laughing without _really_ laughing, and that's what he was doing now, Dean saw, as Sam's head snapped sharply in his direction. "Is something the matter, Sam?"

"Yeah...phoenixes don't exist," Sam said, and he was eyeing the old wizard like he thought the guy was having him on. "They're myths. Like unicorns."

"Are they?" Dumbledore asked, sounding interested, and now his eyes were twinkling like a motherfucker. Supreme irritation mingled with a reluctant sort of fondness surged through Dean in a great wave, adding to his already thorough disorientation.

"They _are_," Sam insisted, though he looked once again around the room, at the instruments, at the animated and now-tittering portraits, and asked, in a slightly more dubious voice. "...aren't they?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Phoenixes, my dear boy, are very real. As are unicorns. Would you like to meet Fawkes? He is an extremely well-mannered phoenix, I assure you."

"I-"

But whatever Sam was about to say was cut off when the bird soared gracefully across the room and landed neatly on Sam's denim-covered knee, blinked quietly up first at Sam, then at Dean, cooed softly.

Dean felt calm, peaceful, like everything was okay even in this strange place with this man, this wizard who wanted them for fuck-knows what reason, who wanted their...

"What do you want with our dad?" he asked, his head feeling clearer than it had since they crashed into this room, when they had appeared out of nothing and nowhere. He looked away from the bird, whom his brother was now stroking with a large, gentle hand. "What do you want with_ us_?"

Dumbledore smiled softly at him. "Before we get into that, I feel I must assure that you are absolutely safe here. You have nothing to fear from this school or the people who reside in it."

These were the exact words that made Dean reach for his gun. In his experience, people who said shit like "you have nothing to fear" and "you are absolutely safe here" are the people you shouldn't trust, and Dumbledore, even though he seemed kind of cool before, just lost a few points with this reassurance.

But his gun wasn't in his jacket. Or in his jeans. Sam saw him searching and searched his own clothes for his, but came up with nothing as well.

"What did you-"

"Your weapons won't work here," Dumbledore said. "I will give them back to you when we say our goodbyes, but for now I feel it best that they are kept out of sight of the children. We have a good number of students here from non-magical backgrounds who know full well what such objects are capable of."

Kids. Dean understood the desire to protect the kids.

Fawkes made some more quiet noises. Dean relaxed a bit more in his chair.

"Do you know what year it is?" Dumbledore asked.

Dobby's words filled Dean's mind again. He shifted in his chair, glanced around the room, let it sink in. Mindfuck words, that's what they were, and he muttered, "1993."

Dumbledore nodded. "That is correct, Dean. It is 1993."

"Does that mean we're somewhere else, too? 'Cause I was fourteen in 1993." He jerked his head in Sam's direction. "And this one here was still the right size in comparison." He thought about his own words for a second, then proceeded to glare at Sam. "The respectful size."

Sam smirked, his attention still on Fawkes.

"You are," Dumbledore said calmly. "But you are far away from your former selves. At this time the younger versions of you and your brother are residing in a rather destitute motel in southern Georgia while your father, however unknowingly, has come into a very valuable and dangerous possession."

"What sort of possession?" Sam asked, his eyes finally flicking up to Dumbledore. "And where _are_ we exactly?"

"We are in Scotland, Sam," Dumbledore replied, pointedly ignoring the first question.

"Our dad's never been to Scotland," Sam informed him. "At least not since we've been alive. I'm guessing whatever you're talking about belongs to you...or belongs to someone you know. How could he have possibly-"

"It has been to many countries and passed through many lands. Now your father...I don't think he would misuse it. Alas, I've been informed that he would lock it away, which is the best thing that he could possibly do under the circumstances-"

"Informed by who?" Dean interrupted. "How do you know anything about our dad? How do you anything about us? And why are we here? Now?"

"Because I couldn't very well bring two innocent non-magical children here against their father's wishes, Dean," Dumbledore said gently, and he looked rather sad while he said it, like he felt a bit sorry for them for some unspoken reason. "And he still has it in 2005."

Sam blinked. "You're...Mr. Dumbledore-"

"Professor, dear child."

"Professor Dumbledore, are you...are you holding us ransom? For whatever it is that our dad has?"

"I'd rather not phrase it like that, Sam. I do not intend for you to be harmed or mistreated in any way...or for your life to be interrupted. You'll find yourselves back where Dobby took you from, in that exact moment, once this whole business is done with."

"So my car will be okay?" Dean asked, feeling relieved. He hadn't even been aware that thought was weighing on him until now, his beautiful baby, his home, abandoned on that shitty backroad in a bumfuck town while he was...here. In Scotland, apparently.

"Your automobile will be just fine, my boy. Just as you left it."

"Her," Dean corrected.

"Indeed," Dumbledore acquiesced, all gracious and shit.

"Just so you know, though," Dean said. "You're not going to get anywhere...keeping us here. Our dad doesn't even know where we are." _He doesn't even care_. The unspoken words were in his throat, searing downwards like Dean was swallowing fire, and he did swallow it, swallowed it all down.

Sam was fidgeting next to him, his eyes back on the bird on his knee, his finger stroking the soft feathers as he attempted not to think these same words, Dean was sure of it, when Dumbledore's kind voice interrupted them. "Why, of course he does, Dean. A father like yours always knows where his sons are."

Dean raised one talented eyebrow that asked one obvious question: _are you kidding me with that shit?_ " You think our dad knows a...a Dobby-"

"A house-elf," Sam interjected.

"Yeah, that. A house-elf, you think our dad knows one of those took us back to the year 1993 to some school for wizards where we're being held ransom for some," and here, Dean pulled out the air quotes, lifting his hands and dancing his fingers around the words," 'very valuable and dangerous possession?' Dude, what kind of drugs are you on, anyway?"

Now Dumbledore looked distinctly amused, and was peering at Dean with something akin to affection over his half-moon spectacles. "None at all, my child. None at all. Though, now that you mention it, I realize I have been a rather ungracious host. Would you like a lemon drop?"

Dumbledore drifted a lazy hand through the air. A candy dish filled with yellow hard candy floated off the desk and hovered in front of Dean.

Dean couldn't resist. He plucked one of the confections out of the dish instantly, unwrapped it quick and greedy-like, stuffed it in his mouth. Then another. And another.

"Thanks," he said through a mouthful.

"You're quite welcome," Dumbledore said serenely. "Now, I promise you, everything will work itself out in time. And while you are here, I do hope you will enjoy your stay. The guest quarters have been set up for you and once you get settled, one of our more precocious third years has offered to show you around the castle and the grounds. The...yes, Sam?"

Dean looked at his brother, whose face was blooming with question. Sam looked a bit nervous and more than a little embarrassed, but it came out in the end: "Can we see the unicorns?"

"Of course you can," Dumbledore said warmly. "Our gamekeeper, and recently-appointed Care of Magical Creatures professor, Hagrid, would be more than happy to show you some of of the more interesting creatures residing on and around the grounds. All you need to do is ask."

Sam looked very excited about this prospect. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Do you have any more questions?" Dumbledore asked. "Anything at all?"

"Yeah," Dean said, crunching down on his lemon drops. "I have a question."

"And what's that, Dean?"

Dean swallowed the candy down. "Where's my freakin' sandwich?"

* * *

**TBC...**


	3. Lack of Encounters

**All For the Firewhiskey**  
by  
Deanie McQueen

_Chapter Three - In Which Sam and Dean Manage not to Encounter Any Students or Ghosts...Yet._

_

* * *

_

The sandwich was divine. Apparently ugly, but kind-hearted little elves were great cooks. Or sandwich-makers. Or both. It mattered not, for Dean's stomach was full and he felt sleepy after all the crazy shenanigans he'd experienced that day.

Dumbledore noted that they both looked ready to have a nice sleep and he shooed them out of his glorious office with all of its fantastic trinkets and into the hands of a rather strict-looking woman wearing square glasses and an emerald...cloak. People wore cloaks here, Dean reminded himself, trying to soak it in once again. Cloaks and robes and wizard hats. All sorts of weird shit.

Her hair was pinned up in a tight bun, which caused her to look all the more severe as she glanced over Sam and Dean as if they were nothing more than two troublesome boys just relinquished to her care. Dean, who was no stranger to misbehavior, felt inexplicably contrite. A quick glance at Sam told him he wasn't alone in this feeling.

"This way, Misters Winchester," the woman said brusquely, and they walked that way, the way she led them, through long, magnificent corridors covered in paintings that moved, just as they had done in Dumbledore's office. The heels of her shoes clicked sharply against the hard floor. And just as Dean was about to speak up with an uncharacteristically timid, "ma'am?," she said, "My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall and I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school. You will be staying in the guest quarters during your visit here as I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has informed you."

Dumbledore had, indeed, informed them of this, though everything about this woman was still a little bit of a shock. Despite the significant difference between their leg lengths and hers, they found it was extremely difficult to keep up with her brisk pace, especially given the wondrous atmosphere surrounding them. Everything was moving and tittering and prickling at that finely-honed sixth sense for the supernatural they'd been developing since they were nothing more than wisps of children, and Dean, at least, was easily distracted, anyway. Well, as long as the situation wasn't life-threatening, which this one wasn't. There were staircases, grand staircases that were shifting position on their own, and suits of armor standing tall and at the ready, though their hall was filled with the distinct, but gentle echo of clanging metal - as if they were moving ever so slightly in that restless way of young soldiers standing in front of their father, perpetually awaiting orders that would always come at some point.

Dean felt a pang of worry. Or loneliness. Or longing. Or all of the above. They had a job that they hadn't finished and a father they hadn't found and Dean...Dean really wanted to find Dad. Dean really wanted to know what was going on.

He opened his mouth, ready to ask this lady if she, too, knew their father, when Sam spoke up.

"Um, Professor?"

"Yes, Mr. Winchester?"

"Do you teach a subject here?"

The pace slowed, but only slightly, and her tone lightened a little, as if she felt somewhat gratified by the question. "Why yes," she said. "I certainly do. I teach Transfiguration."

"I'm guessing in magical context that means turning one thing into something else?" Sam asked, obviously unable to quell the hint of excitement in his voice. "Do you...Can you..."

"Sam," Dean warned instinctively. They were in a strange place, brought here by strange means, and his brother could be a curious little bastard sometimes. The last thing Dean wanted to do was overstep their bounds. Especially with this lady, who probably handed little kids detentions like they were candy on Halloween.

...and who was pulling out an oddly intimidating-looking stick at the moment. Her wand, Dean realized, with a sort of horrified thrill.

"Do you have anything on your person that you wouldn't mind losing?" Professor McGonagall asked.

Sam immediately started fishing through his pockets, his face eager as a goddamn beaver. Dean rolled his eyes, tried not to feel a pang when his brother came up with nothing and.._pouted._ Sometimes he really wondered if Sam ever grew up at all. When it came to his geeky fascinations and disappointment in regards to such, the little bitch was prone to looking downright childish.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

"Oh, no," Dean shook his head. "I happen to _like_ everything on my person."

But Sam kept looking at him with those goddamn eyes - the _puppy_ ones, and Dean finally heaved a sigh and started rummaging through his jacket and his jeans, finally coming up with a disposable lighter that he glanced at before handing over to the witch.

She took it and raised her eyebrows. "Professor Dumbledore didn't confiscate this?"

"Was he supposed to?" Dean asked, but he guessed it didn't matter, because Professor McGonagall simply set the lighter on the ground and aimed her wand at it with a steady hand.

"_Duro_," she said, her tone quiet, but confident, and the lighter, which had been plastic and blue and translucent, turned gray and opaque. She picked it up and set it in Sam's hand.

Sam's eyes widened in surprise and amazement. "Stone," he practically gushed. "You turned it to stone! Dude, that's awesome. Dean! _Stone._"

"I see it, Sam," Dean responded dryly, trying to show that he, too, was impressed. He plucked the lighter out of his brother's hand, let it rest heavy and smooth in his palm. Real. Magic was real. _Good _magic even.

Huh. Well, what do you know.

And just like that, Dean's tiredness increased tenfold. It was too much for one day, all of this...and that thing from earlier, how they got here? What Dobby did? That just...that took it out of him. His body was exhausted, and now his mind was, too.

He yawned, barely noticed when the stone lighter was gently extricated from his palm by an aged hand.

"Come," Professor McGongall said, and it was as if her naturally crisp voice was trying very hard not to be what it was at the moment: surprisingly gentle. Sam and Dean followed her obediently, not saying a word or making a sound other than the footfalls of their boots, the occasional squeaks against the recently polished floor. They climbed a few staircases, some which moved beneath them, but Dean hadn't been paying attention at all, and he had no idea where he was or how he was supposed to get back here in the days to come.

"Which floor are we on?" he asked.

"This is the fourth floor, Mister Winchester," Professor McGongall answered, and they halted in front of a set of double doors and a stone bust of a unicorn's neck and head. The witch quirked an eyebrow at it. "It appears that Professor Dumbledore has changed your guard."

Dean snorted. Sam blushed.

"Your password is..." she halted and closed her eyes. Her lips went thinner than thin and a muscle in her jaw twitched. The distaste was evident in her voice when she finally said the word. "_Whatchamacallit._" A click and a clank of locks unlocking rang through the hall, and then the doors opened all by themselves. "I imagine that is some sort of Muggle confection?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "It's a candy bar."

Professor McGonagall tutted. "Yes, well the headmaster does have a weakness for such things. In you go, then. One of our more accomplished Muggleborn students will come around to fetch you for supper. She has offered to show you around some of the castle tonight, and the grounds tomorrow. Until then, I trust you will get some rest?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said tiredly, and she looked mildly surprised at the polite address, though she said nothing. Just waved them in.

And in they went.

The door closed after them, leaving the two Winchesters standing in a modest entrance to a grand-looking abode. Well, grand to _them_ anyway. There was a small kitchenette off the side of the living area, and an eggplant-colored canapé sat in front of a large antique fireplace already warm and crackling with flames. Three doors sat off to either side. Bedrooms, Dean presumed. Separate bedrooms. What an odd and welcome concept.

Best of all, though, was the coffee table, on top of which sat a plate of warm cookies. A folded note was perched next to this plate, and Sam snatched it up, read aloud:

_Dear Sam and Dean,_

_I do hope you enjoy your stay here. These biscuits are rather delightful if I do say so myself. Dobby has made me a plate or two in his time here - which hasn't been long, mind you. He is a rather eager employee and we are most lucky to have him. They are made with the best Honeydukes chocolate, which is a very soothing substance. For this reason, I suggest you eat one or two before going to sleep to calm your nerves- Dean!_

Dean went still, half of his third cookie stuffed in his mouth, and eyed his brother curiously. "Does it really say my name like that?" he asked through a mouthful. "I'm starting to think _you_ wrote this letter, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Just slow down with the cookies. I want some, too."

"Yeah, sure. What's the rest of the letter say?"

Sam skimmed his eyes over it. "Just that we shouldn't hesitate to bring any concerns up with the staff if we have any. Then he signs his name. The ink's all sparkly."

"Yeah?"

Dean glanced over the letter. The ink was, indeed, sparkly. He snorted. "Magical bastard."

"I think I like Dumbledore," Sam said, a defensive edge to his voice.

"What's that called again? Stockholm Syndrome, right?"

"What are you-"

"Last I checked, he was kidnapping us." Dean stuffed another cookie in his mouth. It was just as delicious as the past three. "Good cookies, though. Think I might have it, too."

"Because of the cookies?" Sam guessed, his tone indicating that he couldn't be any less surprised.

Dean nodded. "And the sandwiches. And the firewhiskey."

"You haven't even _had_ the firewhiskey, yet."

"In good time, Sammy. In good time."

Sam huffed, and Dean smirked. He waited and watched Sam eat a couple of cookies. It was a strange place, and Sam was so excited that it was taking Dean back about fifteen years. He had to make sure the little bastard got some sleep. That was Dean's job, after all.

They parted, going into the two bedrooms. The door in the middle, they had discovered, was a bathroom, with a huge tub that had feet and sweet ass shower fixtures.

Dean's bedroom was nice, sparsely decorated but warm, and the bed was full-sized and four-poster. With _curtains._ Dean was starting to feel like royalty. He kicked off his boots and pants and threw his jacket on a red armchair that was just kind of chilling there in the corner, dropped onto the bed and snuggled under the covers.

_Fuck yes_, he thought, as he started to drift off. _Sleep..._


End file.
